


crotalus

by dogparty



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Medical Procedures, Pre-Canon, Snakes, Unethical Medicine, Young Arthur Morgan, snake bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-06 10:38:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18849364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogparty/pseuds/dogparty
Summary: With the fury of a stick of dynamite, the rattler shoots out from underneath the bush, quick as a whip crack. Arthur stumbles back, arms windmilling as he loses his balance, barks out a cry of pain as the snake lands a true bite. It's sharp and sudden, fiery hot in the soft flesh of his inner calf, below his knee, right leg. Poetically just above the thick, protective leather of his boot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to Rockstar for getting me to write fanfiction for the first time in six years. I did an amount of research prior to writing this, regarding how rattlesnake bites were treated in the 1800's and needless to say they weren't treated well, antivenin didn't become prominent until around when the 1900's began so keep in mind that the medical procedures here are really not what should be done when bitten by a venomous snake, and that the people here are none the wiser regarding it. I also made up some horses for Dutch and Hosea (and threw a donkey in there) because I doubt that they had The Count and Silver Dollar or even a wagon back when they first met. 
> 
> I originally intended to just write all of this fic in one big chapter, but could really use some rest so for the sake of getting it off my mind I'm going to post this half now and the rest should be pretty soon. Apologies for any typos that you might find!

There's nothing interesting about the space between Boadicea's ears, but Arthur is transfixed on it anyway, eyes locked over her soft black hair, sunlight shimmering along the strands. He's practically hypnotized by the gentle rocking of her body as she trots after Hosea's roan, who in turn is following Dutch's moody flaxen. Their mule, Lucky, is plodding along behind Arthur, lead tied to Bo's saddle with baggage swaying on his sturdy back. 

They're trekking through a landscape of dry, rolling plains. The land itself is pastel and empty, smattered with dark sage brushes and angry looking buckhorn cacti. Arthur could count every tree he's seen in the last hour on one hand, dry lonely things with bright yellow flowers, he tries to memorize the fine details of them so that he could try and do some sketching later, when they finally reach wherever Dutch is dragging them. Well, leading them at Hosea's bequest. 

Hosea had sniffed out a hot tip during their last excursion through a town called Bodie, they hadn't stayed long, as the place was uncomfortably populated. They'd picked a few pockets, restocked their supplies, wrung out any information they could find and then left before anyone got too suspicious. There would be two wagons coming through the town and then heading out into the wilderness to deliver supplies and bankroll to a small settlement called Nighthawk, a former trading post that had developed into an unpresuming town. Sparse, hugging a river and very far away from the rest of the world, law included. 

The wagons wouldn't be passing through toward Nighthawk for another four days, and it didn't take much persuasion from Hosea to pique Dutch's interest in ambushing the wagons before they hit their destination. So it was decided, they'd travel to the little town, camp outside of it and then buy their time before intercepting the lone wagons.

It was barely morning when they'd set out, the horizon milky and soft with the rising sun. Arthur had initially been excited about the whole thing, but now he was tired. And bored. And _hot_.

He pulls his pocket watch from his satchel, flicks it open and groans loudly at the time. Squints up at the sun from under his hat, it's high and frighteningly bright, heat laying thick and heavy over the plains. The day is touching noon, and aside from the occasional piss and water break, they've yet to stop for any real rest. He huffs, squirms in his saddle and stares at Hosea's back.

"How long till we get there?" He asks, wipes the sweat off his neck, wipes the hand on his thigh and tucks his watch back into the saddlebag, "Been ridin' for hours now."

"Shouldn't be too much longer," Hosea placates, pulling his hat off and running thin fingers through his pale blonde hair. "Patience is a virtue, Arthur." He adds, teasingly, secures his hat back in place. "Young'uns, always acting like there's no more time in the world."

Arthur scoffs, flicks Boadicea's reins to pick up her pace a bit, "ain'tcha gettin' tired, old man? Been sittin' still for so long now."

Hosea laughs dryly, looks over his shoulder at Arthur. "I'm not too old to throttle you, son." He says, there's no real bite to the words of course. Arthur has grown used to Hosea's playful ribbing and quite enjoys indulging in the cheerfulness, it definitely helps to keep his morale up when things get rough. "Maybe not," Arthur concedes, pulls his leg up from a stirrup to stretch, braces his ankle against his palm and curls the limb up until the heel of his boot presses his backside, sending a pleasant burn through the sore muscles in his thigh. "Wanna find out? We can stop ridin' right now and see." 

"Subtle way of asking to stop for a break." Hosea comments, voice wry. "Oh, Dutch! Our boy here thinks we're in need of a recess." He sighs and rolls his neck, "and I am inclined to agree."

Dutch is quick to swing his horse around, a beast called Anderson, old war horse that belonged to his daddy. He's temperamental and snorting, kicks the dirt in irritation at the sudden change in direction. Dutch himself is wearing an amused grin, yucking it up at Hosea and Arthur's banter. 

"I suppose we can stop for an interval." He drolls, gestures to a nearby palo verde tree.

They lope off to it and dismount around the base of the thing, Arthur stumbles when his feet hit the ground, knees going jelly like, he braces a hand against Boadicea's wide flank to catch himself. She snorts at the sudden impact.

Hosea hooks his hands over his hips and leans back, sore spine whining. He reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out a crumpled map, striding over to Dutch, who is leaning against the tree and drinking water from a canteen. "Alright," Hosea says on an exhale, opens the map and flattens it against the flank of Dutch's horse, "let's see where we are."

Arthur squints over to where the ground slopes down into a stream bed. Hosea was insistent upon keeping the small run of water to their left, as it would be leading them toward a cluster of sandstone buttes. A secluded and well protected area that would make for an ideal camp, just miles outside of Nighthawk. The stream itself was fed from a spring hidden in the butte formation, but forked off to connect to the river that the town was built on. They would follow the stream into the hills and set up their camp, before following it down again and taking the fork down the river, where they'd soon arrive in upon their destination.

He unties Lucky from Bo's saddle, and plucks his girl's reins up from where they hung under her neck. "I'm gonna take 'em to the water," Arthur calls to the others, occupied with their planning, Dutch gives him a little wave in acknowledgment, not looking up from where Hosea is extrapolating over the map. 

The stream isn't too far away, enough that Dutch and Hosea are reduced to slight figures at the end of his sight, but are still within shouting distance. Boadicea snorts and snuffles her nose into the low tumble of water, drinking lazily while Lucky sniffs around and picks at the greener grass that grows around the lips of the stream.

Arthur sighs and knocks his hat off, hooking it on the horn of his saddle, he crouches low next the stream and sticks his hands into the water. It's not cold by any means, baking under the sweltering desert heat, but water is water; he scoops it up and splashes it over his face and soaks his hair with it, slicking it against his scalp. It feels nice, to wash the sweat and grime from his skin, his clothes are still dusty and damp with sweat but the relief of cleaning his face is welcome enough. Once satisfied with his washing, Arthur sits his butt in the dirt and stretches his legs out in front of him, water licking his heels, leans back on his hands. 

He plucks a few crackers out from his satchel, munches on them quietly as Bo loses interest in the water and sticks her snout into Arthur's face, blasting hot breath against his ear. He lifts his free hand up to her and she presses her nose into his palm, skin soft and whiskers tickling his fingers. She sniffs at him a little longer, before pulling away to start eating the flush grass. Arthur closes his eyes and tips his head back, bearing his neck to the sky, sighing in content.

Then there's a noise, it's subtle and quiet but it has practically every hair on Arthur's body standing up, a cold shiver dances along his spine. He doesn't move his body, barely turns his head and looks to the thick creosote bushes at his right. He sees it there, rope like body curled into a pile under the shade of one of the bushes, positively furious face angled toward him. The rattlesnake is hissing, low and quiet, it's a clear warning. Arthur needs to move away from it, and fast. But the snake is barely a foot away, and any movement could send it into a angry frenzy.

Carefully, he leans his weight forward, moves his hands to his sides. If he can get his legs back underneath his body, he could spring away from the rattler. He's barely moved, but the slow motion is enough to upset the snake even more, pit nostrils flaring and copper penny eyes zeroed in on him. After a few a painfully slow moments and not without a grace Arthur didn't think himself capable of, he's got his feet under him once again and is slowly rising, hands raised defensively in front of him, ready to bat at the animal if it strikes. It's rattle has started going, dry and jittery, shaking so fast that it's practically a blur.

Behind him, there's a nicker, and Arthur is cursing every god in existence. Boadicea is still at his back, distracted from her grazing by Arthur's movement. He spares her a desperate glance, shushes her as quietly as he can. But knows that for all the pleading he throws at her, all of her loyalty and grace, she's still a horse. And it doesn't take much to set a horse off.

Arthur's stomach bottoms out as Bo's nostrils bore open, a roiling sound breaks from her throat and she goes walleyed, tosses her head and rears before tearing past Arthur, flank sending a hard shudder through the bushes and hooves beating hard into the ground mere inches from where the snake is curled. 

With the fury of a stick of dynamite, the rattler shoots out from underneath the bush, quick as a whip crack. Arthur stumbles back, arms windmilling as he loses his balance, barks out a cry of pain as the snake lands a true bite. It's sharp and sudden, fiery hot in the soft flesh of his inner calf, below his knee, right leg. Poetically just above the thick, protective leather of his boot.

His shouting is cut off as his back meets the ground, breath smashed out of his lungs. Arthur scrabbles away, the snake having retreated across the stream and into the sage brush on the other side, rocks skittering in it's wake. He hears Lucky bray in loud panic and bolt away, thankfully in the opposite direction that the snake had gone in. 

"Arthur!"

He props himself up on his elbows, head lolling on his shoulders, Hosea and Dutch tromping down the shallow embankment after him. 

Hosea gets to him first, throws himself into a crouch at Arthur's side, hands hovering. "What happened?" He demands, eyes frantic as Arthur squirms and whines in the dirt. "Snake. Rattlesnake." Arthur grouses out, holding a shaking hand over where there's a bloom of blood staining his pants. Over Arthur's shoulder, Dutch pulls a gun from his hip and quickly looks around, "where?"

"I-it's gone. Across the stream." Arthur stammers out, tilting his head back and letting out a groan of pain, bite region burning and screaming like someone is pressing a sizzling brand to it. Hosea is quick to pull his knife from his sheath, pulls Arthur's foot from his boot and forgoes rolling the pant leg up to just cut the material out the way. "Dutch," Hosea barks, "keep his heart above the bite."

Dutch holsters his iron and hastily crouches behind Arthur, scooping his hands under the boy's armpits to sit him up, hands settling over his shoulders, chest to his back. "We got you, you'll be fine." Dutch says gently, breath against Arthur's temple. Arthur can't hold back his whimper as Hosea peels the fabric away from the bite, the skin around the two punctures is an angry red. Hosea is quickly turning to the stream and and scrubbing the knife into the water for a brief moment before shuffling back over to Arthur, hovers the knife above the wound. "This is going to hurt, Arthur." He warns, makes eye contact with him, then looks to Dutch. "Keep him still." Dutch nods, adjust his grip to wrap one arm around Arthur's chest, the other pinning his right arm to his side. Arthur grabs onto Dutch's wrist in near blind panic, turns his head to look away.

With careful precision, Hosea is slicing the knife into one of the punctures, he pushes the tip in and then makes a hard cut through the short distance of skin to the next puncture, connecting them with a deep slice that bleeds hard, thick and rich. Thin lines of blood webbing down Arthur's leg. 

Arthur cries out and struggles against the knife, unable to stop himself. Hosea has to brace his other arm against Arthur's thigh to keep his leg still, "Arthur you have to _stop_ moving and stay calm." He orders, trying to keep his voice in check, regain control of his shaking hands.

"I'm. I'm tryin'!" Arthur nearly wails, presses back into Dutch's secure hold, who shushes him mildly in turn. 

Hosea gives him a dreadfully pitying look, cups a hand into the stream water and brings it to his mouth, swishes it around a few times before spitting it out. Tossing the knife aside, Hosea scoots closer to Arthur, secures one hand against his thigh, the other around his ankle. "Stay still, and remember to breath." He advises, waits for Arthur to give him a weak nod before moving in and pressing his lips to the inflamed bite, mouth working to suck the contaminated blood out from the wound. Hosea pulls, turns his head, spits, then repeats about five times before sitting up and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, yanking off the bandana that's tied around his neck. He picks up the knife and cuts the cloth into strips.

Arthur is sweating and shaking, skin white and shiny like porcelain. "How're you feeling?" Hosea asks, tying one strip of the cloth into a tight ligature around Arthur's skinny thigh, Arthur wincing sharply as Hosea tugs the knot closed, sending a lance of pain through his leg, the other strip is wrapped gently over the seeping wound.

"Hurts real bad." Arthur answers, squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a rough breath, voice quaking, "Am I gonna die?"

Dutch laughs, dry and quick. Nods at Hosea over Arthur's head and carefully moves to stand him, one arm still wrapped over his chest, the other scooping under his arm. "You're not gonna die, son." He says, the words don't come across nearly as confident as Dutch would like them to, but he can't help the tremor. He's seen plenty of people die from bites just like this one. But he keeps that to himself.

Hosea whistles, his speckled roan, Morry, breaks away from the tree to the where the men are clustered near the stream. He trots around them in a nervous circle, whinnying uncomfortably as Hosea grabs his reins and tugs him close. He jams his foot into the stirrup and swings up onto the saddle, scooting backwards a little bit to make room for Arthur. 

Hands out, Hosea grabs Arthur from underneath his arms and pulls him up over the saddle. At seventeen, Arthur is hitting a much less bearable weight, he can't easily be tugged around anymore, and the effort from lifting him has Hosea's back protesting harshly, especially from his awkward position on the saddle. Dutch is quick to step in, push his shoulder underneath Arthur's thighs, one hand of the small of his back to help seat him properly. Once Arthur is settled into the saddle, drooping against Hosea and panting audibly, Hosea gently curls an arm around Arthur's stomach to keep from him from falling off.

"Get the animals together," Hosea says to him, "Set camp, I'll take Arthur into the town. They've got to have a doctor there." 

Dutch nods, swallows thickly. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills, shoves them toward Hosea. "Here," he says. "For the doctor, it's more than enough." Hosea nods and plucks the money from Dutch's hand, shoves it roughly into his saddlebag, but reaches out and grabs Dutch's forearm before the other man can turn away. 

"He'll be okay." Hosea says, looking Dutch in the eye and giving his arm a shake. Teeth stained with Arthur's blood. Dutch takes a breath, nervous energy frazzling his nerves, blinks the sweat from his eyes, runs a hand through his dark hair. "I know." He looks at Arthur, squeezes his knee. "Stay strong, kid." He says, as reassuringly as he can. He steps away to give Hosea room to spur off, "now quit jawing and get out of here!"

Without wasting another second, Hosea swings Morry around, yaps out a "Hyah!" along with a swift kick of the heels into his horse's flanks, the horse brays heavily and tears across the dusty earth, kicking up clouds of grit along his way, leaving Dutch alone with his terror.

\----

The horse beneath Hosea is snorting and spitting fire as they split the ground running, heavy hooves push deep and hard against the parched desert earth, thumping periodically like a lopsided heartbeat. Hosea drives his horse like a madman, whipping the reins quick and striking his spurs hard into Morry's flanks, sending the horse into a frenzy. Grunting and huffing as he runs in long, clean strides.

In front of him, curled over the horn of the saddle, Arthur is hissing and spitting in pain, Hosea can feel how hard he's shaking, the boy's back quivering almost violently against his chest. "You have to hold on Arthur," he urges desperately into Arthur's hair, he can see where the stream cuts off into the river ahead, widening into a dark blue gouge through the plains, he whips the reins again. Hard. "We're so close, just stay awake and keep breathing for me, okay?"

Arthur simply groans in response, tosses his head to the side, it's a noise from deep in his throat, and Hosea isn't sure that Arthur is even aware that he'd made the sound. And it's here that Hosea is filled with a kind of dread he hadn't anticipated. Biting his lip and driving his horse even harder.

Hosea himself, had always been a loner. Before. It was easier to steal from folks if you kept yourself separated from them. At barely 15, he'd walked out the door of his family home without looking back, slid in and out of cities and towns without a thought about anyone but himself. It just made sense. Between playing a huckster and occasionally flirting with stage acting, Hosea kept to himself. He drifted into a town, put on a hell of a show, and left with full pockets. Until he met Dutch.

A weird play of fate that had Hosea questioning himself greatly, he'd never really had a friend before, not a real one. Not one that he couldn't play like a fine instrument. But Dutch saw straight through his act with those clever eyes of his, and made an offer to Hosea that he simply couldn't refuse, no matter how high the walls he'd built around himself were, Dutch had somehow wormed his way through them, stubborn bastard that he is. He now had a friend, a partner, someone to galavant across the Wild West with, put on a grand show with. At the beginning, it had felt very much like a strict and impersonal business partnership, the two men seeing potential in each other that could be played to their own advantages, it would have been moronic of them to _not_ work together.

It was so easy to fall into a genuine companionship with one another though; staying awake into the dead of night, slumped around a dying fire, telling stories of their many previous robberies and scams, drunkenly singing bar songs and throwing back liquor until their guts screamed. The world really felt like it was theirs; they could charm the pearls from a woman's neck and she'd thank them for it. Hosea was more happy and content than he had been in a long time, despite lingering apprehensiveness.

That apprehension, the unsurety Hosea felt in regard to letting people close, had been splintered after he met Dutch, and it was completely blown away when Arthur came along.

Dutch had dragged the half starved kid along with him like a child would with a stray animal, he grinned from ear to ear, put his hands on the kid's scrawny shoulders and flat out boasted about he'd nearly plucked Dutch's gun right off his hip. Just grabbed it, almost made away with the thing until Dutch had glanced to the side, saw the familiar iron glinting behind some stranger's fingers. "Didn't even notice," Dutch said, pats young Arthur on the back as the kid shoves strips of salted venison and bread into his mouth, eating like it's his first meal in days. "Downright impressive, isn't it?"

Needless to say, Hosea was impressed. Arthur stuck around, and they were all the better for it. Any resistance Hosea could have held up against getting attached to the kid evaporated quickly, didn't stand a damn chance. Once Arthur was fed proper, once he had started to trust them, and looked less like a beaten, half starved dog, he flourished. He's loud, cocky and not too bright, sure, but there really is a fire burning in him. Harsh and blinding, Hosea thinks it might consume them all one day. For all that Arthur spits and kicks, there's an untouchable goodness that shows in the slightest moments. When he carefully brushes Boadicea, crooning to her, or when he's sketching away in that journal of his, scratching out an animal or a tree or sometimes even portraits of Dutch or Hosea. He drew a beautiful deer once, lines light and delicate on the paper. Drawn with a careful hand that looked at the world differently.

Hosea cared for him. A great deal, he'd be a fool to deny it. And it absolutely breaks his heart to hear Arthur crying and gasping, writhing in pain as the rattlesnake venom sludges through his veins. Lighting his nerves ablaze. 

He's distracted, so focused on driving his horse hard and fast across the sloping ground when Arthur is suddenly pitching to the side, gagging loudly, the sound shredding out of this throat.

"Shit!"

Hosea is yanking hard on the reins, leans over heavily. Morry shrieking at the sudden pull, stumbling and skidding as his head is jerked sideways. Hosea lunges forward, curses and worms his fingers into the horse's bridle, holding tight to the headgear as he catches Arthur with his own body, grunting as he's forced off of the saddle, one foot wrenched from the stirrup, the other loose over the horse's flank.

His horse stuttered and slowed, scrabbling to regain his balance, stomping hard and angry into the ground. With a grunt, Hosea uses his free arms to gently push Arthur off of him, wrapping an arm over and around the boys hip to tightly grab the saddle horn. Uses the leverage from that to release the bridle and sink back into place in the saddle. "Christ," he breaths, sweating and jittering, "Arthur are you okay?" He asks, gives the reins a final exhausted tug to stop the horse.

Arthur shudders and breaths against his chest, "'M gonna puke.." He groused out before leaning over the saddle again, this time Hosea has a solid grip on him, holding him close and tight. Arthur gags and spits, little more coming up from his stomach than foamy acid and chunks of the crackers he'd eaten before the bite. Hosea rubs his back until it passes, Arthur heaving wildly has he tries to catch his breath, Hosea helps him sit up properly in the saddle again before pushing Morry back into a sprint, they're along the river now. It's wide with quick flowing water. The town has to be close. 

"I can't see..." Arthur says weakly, after a moment, Hosea barely managing to hear his voice over the whistle of the wind and thundering of hoof beats.

"What?" Hosea practically yelps, panic spiking.

"E'rything is blurry and fuzzy," Arthur supplies, taking a deep breath and leaning over Morry's neck. "Think I'm dyin'..."

"You are _not_ dying." He snaps, kicks his spurs hard and squinting against the air the whips at his eyes, threatens to blow his hat off.

Arthur doesn't respond, and it only serves to send Hosea into a higher state of panic. Up ahead, he can see the brown square shapes of buildings, and doesn't bother trying to mask the sigh of relief that escapes him once he sees the town ahead. It's been over an hour since the bite, and while Hosea has heard of people who've lived for days with snake bites, Arthur's current state does not bode well. And most of those people who managed to survive, did not survive in a good way. "Arthur we're here," He says, gentle and quiet into the boys ear, Hosea could jump off his horse and get on his fucking knees to kiss the ground once they stride by an old, sun bleached sign that reads "NIGHTHAWK" in plain lettering. Arthur simply mumbles, lost to incoherency, head dropping back onto Hosea's shoulder.

There are a few people milling about in the midday sunshine, but not many, it's a rather small town, but the cluster of buildings is promising. By the size and the amount of them, it's definitely small, but too big to not have some kind of doctor. Hosea can only pray as he finally rides into the place, looking around frantically for a doctor's office, or someone to ask help of.

He pulls his horse to a hard skid stop in front of man carrying sacks of feed to a wagon, spreads a cloud of dirt into the hot air, the man jumps back at the sudden appearance, dropping his heavy load and reaching for his piece, strapped at his thigh "Wait!" Hosea says, holds up his hands, playing the card of an innocent; though he knows well that he could down the other man before he even cleared leather. "I just need help. Is there a doctor here, or someone with any medical knowledge? Please, it's urgent." 

The man narrows his eyes distrustfully at Hosea; squinting hard and mean up at him, people rarely pass through here, with the town being just so deep into the plains, and strangers who do pass through are often a heap of trouble. Outlaws, bandits, murderers. People trying to hide from something. But it must be the sight of Arthur, sweating and crying on the saddle that convinces this man that Hosea truly means no harm and isn't simply playing him, he points down the dusty road and says, "just at the end of main street here, on the left. Can't miss it."

Hosea dips his head at the man, relieved, "thanks, mister." He says, turns to spur his horse down the narrow street before the man steps up and asks, suddenly feeling bad for nearly pulling his gun on these people. "Do you need help? Getting him down, I mean." And Hosea hesitates, hands wringing tight in the reins, he absolutely doesn't want someone that he doesn't remotely know or trust touching Arthur when he's in such a state, but in this moment, he'd prefer the help as to not accidentally drop Arthur into the dirt when trying to dismount. "Okay," Hosea answers slowly, but keeps his stare hard, a warning, and then says again, "thank you."

The man nods simply and walks alongside them to the doctor's office, it takes less than a minute, the man is quiet and careful with his hands on Arthur when helping Hosea unload him, mostly making sure he doesn't fall off of the saddle while Hosea is climbing down. Arthur slumps like a sack of wet sand when his foot touches the ground; almost taking Hosea down with him, he's sick and in pain but still at least has the good sense to keep his injured leg up as best as he can, blood dripping onto the ground in neat little drops, his bare toes curled tight with the fire radiating throughout his calf. The bite looks ghastly, it's bled through the meager bandage Hosea had wrapped over it, the visible skin a deep, rich red. The skin directly around the bite is so dark that it's almost purple, puffy and inflamed. 

"I've got him," Hosea says, pulls Arthur's arm secure over his shoulder, fingers right around his wrist, curls his other hand over his hip. The man steps back, dips his head a little awkwardly, unable to look away from the snake bite. "Wish you the best, good luck." he says before returning down the street to his own business.

Hosea quickly opens the door, practically shoves the thing open with his elbow and staggers in, tugging his boy along with him. It's a plainly small office, two small cots against the wall, two counters laden with supplies, and really not much else. There's a man cleaning small tools at one of the counters, and he drops one of them as he jumps back in surprise when Hosea bursts in, scalpel clinging loudly as it tumbles to the floor. Without hesitation, Hosea practically begs, "Help us, please." Adjusts his hold on Arthur, who is panting weakly into Hosea's neck. The doctor is taken aback, a little cowed by the unfamiliar people, but he quickly wipes the surprise away and steps forward, can see that the boy is in a very bad way, "Of course," he says, and directs Hosea toward one the cots, "put him there, easy."

Slowly, carefully, Hosea is pulling Arthur to a cot and is sitting him down. Arthur almost immediately moves to lay down, but Hosea stops him quick, hands soft on his shoulders. "No," he says, "I know that you want to rest but you have to keep the bite below your heart. Sit with your back against the wall."

Arthur whines like a struck dog, and with a little help, scoots back so that his weight is slumped on the wall behind the cot, legs out and in front of him. He looks pitiful, eyes wet and unfocused, skin ghostly pale and slick with sweat, his hair completely soaked and plastered down, hanging over his forehead. Hosea uses a gentle palm to push the wet hair up and off of his face, frowning hard at the heat blasting off of his skin. 

The doctor appears then, pushes his glasses higher up onto his nose, gets a close look at Arthur's leg, "a snake bite I see." He says, looks over to Arthur's face and grimaces at the state of the boy. "How recent?"

"Almost two hours ago, rattlesnake." Hosea answers numbly, wipes his hands on his pants and stands up, knees shaking, "we.. we did what we could." The words ride out on a shaky breath.

The mans _hmms_ , pulls the blood soaked strip of cloth away from the wound and tosses it into a nearby disposal pan, blood splattering hard on the interior it, some dots of it hit the floor. "I'm Doctor Turner, by the way." He introduces himself concisely, carefully prodding around the bite region, not touching the entry wounds or the slice that Hosea had made, but testing the tissue around the area. The skin is swollen and tight, shiny and bloated in it's swelling. 

"Hosea, Matthews."

"Well, pleasure to meet you Mr. Matthews, I wish it were under better circumstances. Rattlesnake bites are a hell of a thing." Doctor Turner pulls away, pushes his glasses up again and retreats to one of the counters where he starts hustling supplies onto a tray with wheels, syringes filled with liquid, scalpels, gauze, as well as various bottles and jars. "I'll start treatment immediately, it's good that you got him here in good time. Makes things easier, but," he push his cart of supplies over, set it to a stop near the cot where Arthur is suffering, pulls a small stool over and sits on it, "I can't guarantee that his life will be saved."

"I have money." Hosea starts, "a lot. I'll pay whatever you need, I swear it. Just save him." It's only half a lie, him and Dutch do have a decent sum of money stowed away, but he has no idea what kind of price this doctor could put on Arthur's life, especially in such a far away town where medical supplies come very dear. The answer to the question of whether or not they'd dip into this saved money is obvious.

Doctor Turner sighs roughly, pulls a daunting looking syringe up from the tray, and one of the small bottles. He sticks the needle of the thing into the bottle and pulls the plunger up, clear liquid sucking up into the syringe reservoir, then deftly flicks the glass to pop any bubbles residing inside of the the liquid.

"I'll do what I can," he says, reaches out and grabs one of Arthur's limp arms with a gentle hand and turns it to expose the soft, pale underside, palpates the crease of his elbow, searching for a vein. "That's what I swear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bodie and Nighthawk are real places where I'm from, both are abandoned ghost towns in the plains of Eastern Washington State, and both were settled in the 1800's, they're comparable in appearance to Valentine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this done earlier but sometimes life just gets ya, and I tired to iron out as many typos as I could find but I'm sure at least one might've slipped by. 
> 
> Also warning there is a semi graphic depiction of surgery in here.

Dutch rounds up their scattered beasts; Lucky is easy, placid mule that he is. Whereas Boadicea is skittish and upset, prancing out of Dutch's reach just as he gets close enough to snatch up her reins, snorting and raking her hooves through the dirt. She flicks her tail like a whip, ears flat against her head. He approaches her slowly, hands out and palms open, murmurs as gently as he can in spite of his impatience, "Easy girl, you're alright.."

She fights him, presents a wily stubbornness that Dutch wouldn't know how to handle within his own horse, isn't sure how Arthur could stand it. But the difference there is that she trusts Arthur, Dutch on the other hand could just be another venomous snake for all the difference it makes.

Precious time is wasted with his crooning attempts to win Boadicea over; Dutch's mind wild with thoughts of Arthur dying before Hosea could even get remotely close to any kind of physician. There's nothing he can do here, no way for him to help them. And the stress of that wrings his heart up like a dirty wash rag. The most that he can do is just get these damn animals together and into the hills, get to Nighthawk as fast as his own horse will carry him and be there for Arthur. Because he's going to be okay, Dutch is going to ride into that town before sundown and Arthur will be there, alive. Sick, probably in a great deal of pain but _alive_.

He manages to grab Boadicea's reins finally, tugs her over to where Anderson stands lazily by the tree, Lucky already tied to him. Dutch yanks a rope out from the baggage strapped over the mule, loosely ties one end around Bo's neck, the other around the horn of his saddle. She protests a bit, whickers in her unease, but doesn't put up too much of a fuss in following after Dutch once he mounts Anderson, kicks his heels into the horse's sides to spur him forward. It's a slower paced ride than Dutch is comfortably with, but the mule won't be able to keep up with a more breakneck pace, and he's wary of Arthur's horse, she follows behind easy enough but hustling her along when she's already pretty spooked might only make her break off again. 

Sure as Hosea had said, the stream begins winding into some low dirt mounds that build up into red buttes, stark against the wide blue sky. He follows the stream deep into the formation, horses grunting a bit at the slight inclines, the ground beneath their hooves littered with loose rocks that tumble and slide underfoot. The stream takes them through gorges of varying size, some wide enough for several wagons to move through, others so narrow that Dutch's knees brush against the walls that stretch high around him, hiking the horses forward through the stream itself. It's not a particularly long trek, maybe fifteen minutes at most, but Dutch can feel every second of that time as he anxiously pushes the animals further into the seclusion of the hills, eventually breaking out into a wider gorge again. The stream is barely more than a trickle here, snakes through the small clearing up to the towering wall, where it's birthed out from narrows cracks that are eroded into the surface. 

In a brisk motion, Dutch is swinging off his saddle and untying Boadicea and Lucky from his horse, leads them to the dried remains of a pinyon tree and ties their leads tight around the tree's skeletal trunk. He tests his knots, tugs hard on the ropes and releases them in satisfaction when they refuse to give. Almost done. He doesn't squander any more time in bothering to set up a camp, just quickly unties the load from the mule's back and shoves it all behind the tree before practically sprinting over to where his horse is waiting, stumbling in his haste, leaps up and onto the saddle and gives a rough cry to the animal, spurs biting hard into it's sides. Anderson bays hotly but is quick to move, heavy muscles working to propel them down through the curling ravines, moving at such a speed that Dutch briefly worries about the animal slipping on the loose ground. For all that his daddy's old horse is angry and apathetic, he was born running across the battlefield, and had the pure power and will to run straight through fire and bullets he did.

The distance is eaten up quickly, they leave the butte formation behind them and follow the stream back down to the fork; from this higher elevation, Dutch can see the river sprawling up ahead, a deep shimmering serpent resting on the horizon. The sight of it has him flicking the reins hard, holding them tight in a white knuckled grip. 

Dutch refuses to entertain the idea that Arthur may not survive this, that he could already be dead. Death by a snakebite was not a pleasant one, it wasn't easy to accept, being such a little thing, and wasn't justified of people who had as much fight in them as Arthur did. There was just no way that he could go out like this, slow and suffering. Dutch fancied himself a dramatic and perhaps miserable death, no more than he believed he deserved; Arthur on the other hand, deserved better. Dutch hadn't saved the kid from starving in the streets only to lose him to something as seemingly inconsequential as a few drops of venom.

He thinks of the possible outcomes, Dutch had met folk before who'd lost limbs to rattler bites; hands, entire arms and legs amputated to stop the spread of infection . He'd never pried and asked for the details, but now he wishes he had so that he could at least know if Hosea had been quick enough to save Arthur's leg. The thought of the boy losing a limb sent a deep ache through his chest; a man could always live after having a limb removed, but how he lived afterward was always in question. Arthur would have to survive the shock of the amputation first, and he would then have to learn to live with himself. He was a headstrong and lively young man, but had personal issues with his own self worth that were not easy to spot. It was never something he discussed openly with them, rough hang ups regarding himself hidden under the surface; not quite tangible but Dutch and Hosea could pick up on Arthur's nervous nuances. Losing his leg, such a vital part of the body while living _this_ kind of life, it would be a crushing blow, he would be devastated. And picking up the pieces would be an agonizing ordeal.

Dutch is not a spiritual man; stopped rightly putting his faith and stock at the mercy of a God the day his father died, but as Dutch rides with the sun at his back and blood roaring in his ears, he can't help but pray.

\----

"What is that?" Hosea asks, keeping his distance but leaning in just a bit to get a closer look.

"Morphine." Turner replies as he slides the needle under Arthur's skin, slowly pushes the pump down and expelling the liquid into his vein. "This will the numb the pain a great deal." Hosea only nods, not caring if the doctor saw the gesture, and keeps his eyes on Arthur's face.

He's frighteningly pale; skin like wax paper, eyes red and purple, froth on the corner of his mouth. His body is slack on the cot, back pressed against the wall with his arms limp at his sides. Doctor Turner moves the nearby disposal pan underneath his leg, collects the blood that steadily drips from the wound. "Could you fetch me a wet rag?" He asks, turns to glance at Hosea and points to the cabinet sink at one of the counters, several small towels folded next to it. Hosea moves quickly to the basin, luckily filled to the brim with water, and dips one of the towels in. He wrings the excess liquid from it before striding back over to where the doctor is hunched over Arthur's prone form.

"I don't have an assistant or nurse," Turner explains, moves the rag to wipe the sweat and spit from Arthur's face. "When something bad happens, the townsfolk usually help me out with these minor things." He looks back up to Hosea, "you don't mind helping me take care of him? If not, I could ask you to fetch someone from outside." Hosea is quick to shake his head.

"I'll help you," he says, "just tell me what to do and I'll do it." 

"Good then," says the doctor as he pulls away from Arthur and tosses the rag aside. "I'm going to need you to hold him still in a moment." He grabs a different syringe from the tray, as well as a different vial, fills the glass tube with the new liquid and repeats the injection process, carefully rubs his thumb over the vein. "Ammonia," Turner supplies before Hosea can ask. "Neutralizes the venom, I believe that you may have gotten most of it out of his body before it could spread too far, but regular injections of this should clear up anything that remains." Placing the now empty syringe aside and moving the tray around, the doctor scoots his stool closer to Arthur's leg, rolls up his sleeves with a sigh. "Pin him down now, this will be painful."

Hosea steps forward and lowers himself to the cot next to Arthur, "how do you want me to hold him?" He asks, shaky hands hovering over him tentatively. "Just keep him as restrained as you can, arms and his other leg in particular. He won't feel this as much, as to the morphine, but it will definitely still hurt." 

Shuffling forward a little; he gently pulls Arthur close, slips an arm underneath the boy's shoulders, holds Arthur's hand tightly over the knee of his wounded leg, Arthur's other arm pinned between his own body and Hosea's. Using his free arm Hosea lifts Arthur's other leg from the floor to the cot, bent at the knee, Hosea's hand around his ankle, leg held tight within the curl of Hosea's arm. It's an awkward hold, but it's the best that Hosea can do at the present moment. He murmurs a quiet reassurance down to Arthur, shaking and breathing against his chest. Arthur only gives him a dull whine in response, morphine taking hold on him, face screwed up like a little kid that wants to cry. "What are you going to do?" He asks lowly, eyes firm on the doctor's hands as he picks up a mean looking scalpel from the tray.

"Rattlesnake venom kills anything it touches," Turner explains, pressing finger tips to the skin around the bite, purple and distended. "The death that is causes spreads, so if you want your boy to keep his leg, I'm going to have to carve out all of the dying flesh." Hosea blanches, stomach turning. Feeling very glad that the doctor at least had morphine to provide for Arthur.

"It'll take a helluva time to heal and leave a right foul scar, but it will likely save his life and his leg." 

"Okay," Hosea says, licks his lips nervously and adjusts his grip on Arthur, "do what you have to do."

Doctor Turner nods, the fingers that were lightly held against the wound suddenly push a little harder, pressing in to get better access to the bite region. With precision to impress, the doctor draws the blade of the scalpel across the ravaged expanse of Arthur's skin, about five inches long, he then cuts another line vertically down the middle, this one threes inches or so. Hosea grimaces and looks away as the doctor slips the scalpel between the skin and the muscles, flaying off the upper layer. Blood is dripping rapidly into the pan now, metallic _drip_ _drip_ _drip_ sound filling the room. There's so much of it, so dark it's almost black. He drops the dead skin into the pan as well, flesh slapping wetly as it hits the surface.

Arthur is mewling low in his throat, sweat collecting on his skin again, squirming weakly against Hosea's grasp.

"I'm sorry," Hosea says to woefully into Arthur's damp hair, voice low and only for Arthur to hear, "I'm so sorry." He keeps his gaze away from the doctor's careful work, can't bear to watch him scooping out the infected layers of skin and muscle tissue. Arthur jerks roughly as Doctor Turner removes a particularly large chunk of flesh from his calf, fibers holding on and stretching out as he pulls it away. " _Huurtsss.. _" Arthur manages to grouse out, looks up at Hosea with sightless tear filled eyes.__

____

__"I know it hurts," Hosea tells him, voice uneven. He swallows thickly, dry throating clicking. "You're doing very well Arthur, just hold on a little bit more."_ _

__Arthur practically sobs at that, shaky hot breath on Hosea's collarbone. And Hosea can do nothing but squeeze him a little tighter, whisper more encouragement to him. After a grueling amount of time nearing twenty minutes, Doctor Turner pulls away from Arthur's leg, drops the scalpel onto the tray, his own hand shaking a bit. He then grabs a brown bottle with a yellowed label from the tray and unscrews the lid, "bring the water basin over here, please." He says to Hosea, "and another rag."_ _

__Hosea carefully extracts himself from his tight wrap around Arthur, walks over to the sink on weak legs, feeling almost lightheaded. He brings the supplies over to the doctor, who mutters out a "thank you" before wetting the fresh rag, uses it to wipe the running blood away from Arthur's leg. Hosea looks at the bite region, and wishes that he hadn't. It's a neat gouge in the meat of his calf, like a hungry animal took a large bite out of it. The purple and black skin is completely removed, with a degree of the muscle and flesh underneath picked away, there's no bone to see, but the blood slicked surface of Arthur's remaining calf muscles shuddering as Arthur twitches in pain is enough to haunt him for weeks. "That should do it," Turner sighs, picking up the brown bottle and pouring the liquid it contains straight into the open wound. The liquid itself is a deep orange, and Arthur barks out a cry as it soaks into his exposed flesh. "Iodine," is the explanation, "for disinfection. I'm going to pack the wound and wrap it now, you may not need to hold him down anymore but stay close just in case."_ _

__Grim faced, Hosea returns to his seat next to Arthur on the cot, places one careful hand on his shaking shoulder, the other he uses to cup Arthur's cheek and lift his head a bit, skin clammy against his palm. "Arthur," he says, gentle. "You're almost done."_ _

__Arthur blinks rapidly, eyes still unfocused, tears leaking over red rims, sliding over his flushed out cheeks. " _Hoseaaa.._ "_ _

__Hosea smiles weakly at him, pushes sweaty hair out of his face, again. Kid could use a hair cut. "Just stay awake a little bit longer, then you can rest. I promise" Arthur looks at him blearily, face slack with a ghostly pallor. He looks beat to all hell, but Hosea swears he can still see that familiar fire in his eyes, behind the dull pain and sick delirium. It makes his heart clench._ _

Before packing and bandaging the wound; Doctor Turner gently rubs a marigold ointment into the sensitive flesh, and then helps Hosea dress Arthur down to his union suit and lay him into a more comfortably position on the cot. They lay him so that his chest is still elevated higher than his leg, as a precaution; and after placing a cool damp rag over his forehead, get him to drink a little bit of water as well as feed him a clove of garlic to stave off infection. Hosea hopes that Arthur can keep it down, after all the vomiting and sweating and bleeding he's gone through, he's likely teetering on the edge of dehydration, which would only further serve to interfere with the healing process. 

Hosea takes off his hat, and runs a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. He's now realizing how sweaty and anxious he is, so caught up in the wild rush of helping the doctor treat Arthur, he suddenly feels so empty and drained. Said doctor is wiping Arthur's blood from his hands and moving his filthy tools over to the sink, picking up the gore filled pan and placing that in the sink as well, back turned to Hosea.

"Thank you." He manages to speak out, "Thank you so much, I-"

"Don't thank me just yet." Turner interrupts, he turns around and leans back against the counter, face stony. "The rest is all on him; getting the better of the sickness and the surgery. If his leg doesn't show any progress within the next few hours, I'll have to amputate. Limb removal is a tough thing, and he's already weak enough."

Hosea bites his tongue, a small flair of anger has his lip curling at the abject negativity of the statement. "It won't come to that," he says, firm, "Arthur is a strong boy. He'll pull through."

"I don't doubt that he's tough," Doctor Turner is saying, looking back to his tools to begin washing them. "But even the toughest man can be bested by infection. I've done what I can for now, we will just have to wait and see what happens." He looks over his shoulder at Hosea, standing in the middle of the room, nerves going haywire. Sighs as he realizes the gravity of his words, the stress that the man before him must be feeling. Assuages and says, "Don't worry about the payment yet, we'll just focus on keeping him alive for the time being. Why don't you step outside? Some fresh air might do you good."

Exhaling roughly, Hosea drops his head a bit, sags like a limp fish. "Alright," He moves toward the door but stops short, hand hovering over the brass handle. "I do mean it though. Thank you, really." Turner turns to him then, the corners of his mouth soften, "I just did my job, as much as you did yours." 

"And what was my job?" Hosea asks almost dryly, mostly to himself as he begins to push the door open, stumbles to a brief halt as the doctor answers, words coming out easy as if they didn't punch the air out of Hosea's lungs.

"Being a father."

\----

When Dutch rides into the town, the horizon is awash with a deep red and yellow, soft pink fading into purple as the peak of the sky turns dark and inky, stars beginning to stud the wide expanse. The town is quiet and sleepy as he pushes his horse into it's boundaries, the beast roiling and stepping unsteadily, exhausted from the hard run through the desert. Dutch himself is looking around frantically, sweat slicking his clothing, skin of his face pink with the beginnings of a sunburn. He moves further down the empty street and catches sight of Hosea's familiar shape sitting on the porch of a small building; arms slung over his knees, hat on the wood next to him with a cigarette hanging limp between his lips. Dutch pulls his horse to hard stop in front of him, dust scattering.

"Hosea," he barks urgently, dismounting and striding up to his friend. There's a glass like tension in the air and Hosea's posture looks absolutely defeated, Dutch's guts twist harshly as speaks. "Is- is he.." He can't quite finish the sentence, dipping his head a bit to get a better look at Hosea's face.

Hosea pulls the cigarette from his lips and stubs it out. "He's alive."

And it's all that he needs to say, Dutch is letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, slumps to the porch stairs beside Hosea. "Thank god," he rasps, rubs his hands over his face, heels pressing hard into his eye sockets. "How.. how is he?" Hosea looks at Dutch, stands up from his seated position, plucks up his hat and places it back on his head. 

"Still has his leg." He answers, puts his hands on his hips, "for now. Doc isn't sure if it'll survive the infection but, we're not going to contemplate hypotheticals right now. Things are bad enough already."

Dutch nods, swallows heavily and stands up as well, moves to hitch his horse to a nearby post. "Fair enough, can we go in? Is he awake?" He asks, tries to peer through the glass window on the door, but the shutters behind it are pulled down. "He's probably not awake," Hosea says, sets up the few remaining steps to the door. "But we can sit with him, I'm sure."

Inside, there's a doctor leaning over a sleeping Arthur, injecting something into his arm. His head snaps to Dutch immediately, eyes passing between him and Hosea, who is quick to step forward and say, "this is my brother, the boy's uncle." The doctor doesn't move his eyes away from Dutch, but nods and finishes giving Arthur his injection, gentle removing the needle from his skin. "Your boy here has been though the wringer," He says, standing up and disposing of the syringe, "but everything looks well so far. His leg hasn't gotten any worse, which is a great sign. Most people bitten by rattlesnakes don't fair half as well as him. You should consider yourselves lucky."

"Oh we do, sir." Dutch is quick to say, "a horrible accident, it was."

"Horrible indeed," the doctor says, he's clearly suspicious, but not enough to prod further. Nighthawk being as far away as it is from any other towns or settlements, he can only wonder why these men and this boy were out here. Firmly electing to not press the issue, he wipes his hands over his thighs. "We can discuss payment tomorrow, but for now I'm going to retire for the evening. I've reapplied a calendula salve and redressed the wound, I've also given him another ammonia injection." The doctor moves toward a door at the back of the room, reveals the stairs behind that lead up into his living quarters. "You men can stay here for the night, if you'd like. But I can't offer you a bed, unless you fancy sharing the cot there."

"That's fine," Dutch says, "we're grateful." 

The doctor turns, "if there is any significant change in the night, do let me know." With that, he closes the door behind him, and Dutch waits for the man's footsteps to fade up the stairs before closing the distance between himself and Arthur's cot.

The kid looks like a corpse, limp and pale, dressed down to his underwear, head tossed to the side as he slumbers. His leg is wrapped tightly from his knee all the way down to his ankle. Dutch sighs heavily, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Christ.."

There's a scrapping noise as Hosea is pulling a pair of chairs up to the cot, "at least you didn't have to watch the surgery." He says, plants himself heavily down into his chair, slumps in it, takes off his hat and lays it over his stomach. Dutch sits down as well, looks over to Hosea. He looks entirely wiped out, eyes lids hanging heavy, lines setting deep on his face. "You should rest," Dutch sighs, points to the other cot in the room. "I'll stay awake."

Hosea waves him off, "I'm fine here." He says, looks back to Arthur, thin lips pursing. "What a mess." He curses in a low voice, "One of the worst things that could have happened out here."

"We're going to have to put off that robbery," Dutch says grimly, bemoaning the loss of the much needed money. He tilts his head back and grunts in frustration. It's not Arthur's fault of course, but they're down a gun, and attempting to rob multiple wagons with one of their own incapacitated just isn't feasible. Arthur would be upset, and would likely blame himself, despite everything. They'd have to be clear in telling him that, frankly, shit happens. There are plenty of other possible robberies out there for them to tackle, and while the loss of this definitely set them back and evaporates their reasons for even being this far out into the desert in the first place, they'll recover. As long as Arthur and Hosea are still breathing, Dutch is willing to sacrifice as many heists as it takes. 

Despite the uncomfortable chairs and frazzled nerves, they both manage to drift into unsteady sleep, and it's in the early hours of the morning that Dutch is woken up by weak coughing. It's still dark out, but there's watery light filtering into the small room. Dutch blinks awake then, sitting up straight when he realizes that the coughing, more akin to choking, is coming from Arthur. Back protesting from having been sat in that chair for so long, Dutch is springing from the chair. "Hey, hey.." He whispers as he helps Arthur turn over and lean off the edge of the bed, vomiting weakly onto the floor.

Arthur groans heavily, doesn't move from his curled position as Dutch rubs a wide palm over his shoulders, Hosea stirring from his own sleep at the commotion. "There he is," Dutch greets with a meek smile when Arthur finally starts to move, lets Dutch settle him onto his back once again. Hosea now having gotten up, wordlessly moving across the room to grab a rag and a cup of water. The boy blinks blearily up at him, lifts a heavy hand to wipe away the vomit from his chin. "D-Dutch?"

"So you've decided to come back to us."

Arthur lets out an airy little breath, the corner of his mouth curling ever so slightly into a smile. "I.. guess so.." He says, voice quiet and heavy, words slurred. Hosea is there then, carefully pushing the small metal cup toward Arthur, "drink. Little sips," he says as he dabs away the rest of the vomit from Arthur's face. He takes a few very small drinks before handing the cup back to Hosea, who places it on the floor. Sagging back against the pillows, Arthur looks up at the two of them, that sad dog look beginning to wash over his face. "I'm sorry..." He starts, but is swiftly interrupted by Dutch raising a hand. "I'm going to stop you right there, son." He says, voice wry "it's not like you made that snake bite you."

"No," Arthur says, looking away, expression absolutely forlorn. "But, I-I shoulda.. known better. Been more careful.." 

"You can know better next time," Hosea interjects, crosses one leg over the other, "you're alive Arthur and that's all that matters right now. Now go back to sleep, you need it." Arthur's brows pinch like he wants to say more, but instead he sighs and settles deeper into the pillows behind him, looking ever so pitiable.

"Okay..." He slurs after a moment, eyes slipping closed again, lines on his face smoothing out. "Thank you, for savin' me."

"It's my pleasure, Arthur." Hosea says lightly, soft eyes on Arthur as he gently drifts off into sleep again. He rubs a hand over his mouth, holds it there for a moment before dropping it to his side and looking over to Dutch. He says, quietly, "we have a problem, Dutch."

"And what's that Hosea?" Dutch asks, carefully propping a leg up against the frame of the cot, sinking back into his chair.

"I think I'm starting to like this kid."

Dutch gives him a smile, a private little thing between the two of them. "Yeah, me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that most of the medical procedures in here are questionable at best, there wasn't an exact way of treating rattlesnake bites in this time period, so I gathered a few different methods and mashed them together. On top of fictionalizing it a bit, for the sake of the story. Please don't inject yourself with ammonia!
> 
> Thank you for reading this, and feedback is always appreciated!


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